


i act, though i should not

by KatyaTrixie



Series: perhaps love [6]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Eldritch Terror: The Perverse, F/F, Hint of Zarie, Imp of the Perverse Mary/Zelda, Madam Spellman's Art School, Mind Control, POV Zelda Spellman, Spellwell - Freeform, The Imp Of The Perverse, This episode was so bizarre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29188197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyaTrixie/pseuds/KatyaTrixie
Summary: Inspired by Part 4, Episode 4: Chapter 32Emperor Blackwood is much too busy to be bothered with the day to day arrests and accusations of witchcraft, after all, he is the Divine Ruler of Greendale. So, on inspection day at Madam Spellman's Art School, he sends his Minister of Education, Mary Wardwell.
Relationships: Zelda Spellman & Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith, Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: perhaps love [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822018
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	i act, though i should not

**Author's Note:**

> Mary is indescribably delicious in Chapter 32. She practically chews her dialogue, especially the phrase "Why are witches so BAD...?" I was inspired.

**_Through its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we act, for the reason that we should not._ **

**_-imp of the perverse- edgar allan poe_ **

  
  
  


It was bad enough that one of them painted the door, branding us witches. The perverted, transposed B having been made into a W, the mark that would have us all executed. Adding insult to injury, it was demanded we produce his likeness. So predictable, those without imagination stifling the artists’ creativity, the only thing we have left.

We purposed the bust in our central hall in his image, that pompous man. In bronze, no less. Melted down our creations to create his effigy, all the while spouting our anger and resentment.The one who came first was far more deserving of that space than….who was in that space before him? Someone was. I can feel it in my brief moments of clarity, as I feel something in me itching to get out. It weighs on me, hovering in my fingers. 

The children call to me now:  _ Madam Spellman, someone is at the door. _

I’ve forbidden them to go near the entrance. Some have been snatched, taken away to land on the executioner’s block at his amusement. Emperor Blackwood. Perhaps it’s him at the door. 

I make my way to greet him, only Marie beats me to it. But it isn’t the clatter of his boots I hear following her, nor the entourage he carries with him as if he’s some feudal monarch on tour of his estates. It’s quiet, save the clicking of a pair of heels. Who’s this now?

Marie rounds the corner, turns to announce the presence of Blackwood’s Education Minister. Internally I roil, seething at having to bow and scrape to yet another of his lackeys, only to find myself intrigued as she enters my view.

A slight woman, all in black. Her uniform rivals his, only without the vainglorious red and gold accoutrement signifying absolutely nothing. Black buttons, a vertical pattern that flatters her frame, causing my eye to travel the curves of her jacket, the high neck giving nothing away. The accompanying skirt is form fitting, hardly allowing her to propel herself forward but she uses this to her advantage as we are forced to wait on her, and I allow myself a further inspection. 

I cannot fathom how she has created her elaborate coiffure, for I see as many braids and twists as I’ve never witnessed. Her eyes are piercing me now, a glacial blue that holds no warmth; she is the essence of an ice queen. Facial features that appear to be cut from stone themselves, I find myself longing to sculpt her, to leave a monument to her distinctive, striking face. 

I glance to the side to find Marie studying me strangely, as if she knows what I am thinking, what I desire.

She speaks, and I’m drawn from my reverie.

“Madam Spellman?” She fascinates me with the way my name spills from her lips. 

I nod, finding my voice, although it lacks the force I’d like to put behind it. “Yes, this is my school. And you are?” 

“You may address me as Minister Wardwell. I’m here to inspect your academy. Sit in on a lecture, peruse your catalogue of classes. And perhaps,” She allows her gaze to travel over me now. “I shall be convinced to leave the lot of you safe and sound, not drag you to trial for witchcraft. Have you anything persuasive to share?”

She continues to hold me in her gaze as if I am a fox in a steel trap, a rabbit in a snare. I should look away, this is not right. 

Marie swallows audibly, her eyes focused on the toes of her shoes now. 

“Zelda,” she finally speaks, her Haitian accent haltingly fearful. “The children have their song to share. It could be that the Minister would be so moved by this gift.”

I can see in her dark eyes she yearns for reassurance, to know I haven’t been taken away completely by this maddening longing, but I can give Marie nothing, for I cannot resist it myself.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Marie. Would you do the honors?”

For the life of me, I cannot remember a woman drawing me in as she has, a compulsion such as her. I move to face the children, and she turns on her heel, angling herself so that I cannot look at the singers without seeing her in the periphery, that crocodile smile never leaving her face.

Can she sense my attraction, the way I’m fighting against it? Does she see the flush that travels my cheeks and causes the blood to pulse through me? Is she the witch after all, is this a spell she’s cast on me?

Something in me stirs as the words ring out, a clash of my will and a hidden, sinister force. Blackwood has used the message of the song to remind us all our tomorrows belong to him, at his whim. A flash passes through me, a distilled image, momentary and brief. Emperor Blackwood in chains, in our dungeon. It’s gone as quickly as it came, and now it’s as if I’m bashing my head against a wall. I feel her gaze on me. Does she know my consciousness rebels? 

All too soon the children’s voices fade away, and I’m turning to her, anxious to know if we’ve passed muster, if their rendition of his anthem has sufficed. 

“So, Minister, did our song please you?” I force myself to meet her eyes, to hold her stare.

“What?” She seems distracted, her eyes dip lower, tracing the crisp collar of my dress, the fitted bodice beneath my embroidered jacket. “Oh, no.”

“No?” I ask, a hand to my chest. 

“No,” she repeats, and her henchmen appear through the foyer. “Arrest them all.” She directs, stifling a yawn. Dragging children to prison in such regularity has become tiresome it seems.

“Wait --” I hold up a hand, and she raises a brow. “I, I may have something else you’d find pleasing. In my office.”

She follows close behind me as I lead her deeper into the Academy, and I can almost feel her hot breath on my neck. Another jolt shatters my consciousness, a snapshot, the feel of her lips on mine, timid then passionate. I stagger from this supposed memory, and I can see she goes to catch me, and just as quickly backs away as if remembering herself, this cruel persona she’s taken on not really hers.

Pushing open the twin doors of my office, she tsk-tsks as her judgmental survey makes its way to the crimson velvet curtains. She moves to part them, thinking rightly to find my most secreted treasures. I move to stop her, for I desire to display only one object she is sure to find fascinating.

Shifting portraits, I find the prize. The stolen copy, a fraud to be sure, but it haunts me as I spend hours examining it. 

“Judith Beheading Holofernes,” she breathes, and I knew at once I’d made the correct assumption. “Wherever did you find --?”

Escaping now from my fingers, that itch I cannot control any longer, and something inexorably powerful swirls between us. She’s lost in her own memories now, the cloudy haze of mind control unable to hold back the onslaught of feeling. 

We had stood before this one, she and I, at the National Gallery in London. I recall all at once how she had taken my hand as we ventured slowly through the galleries, stopping before Artemisia’s pivotal masterpiece. The emotive eyes of Holofernes staring back at the two of us, begging us to save him from the two maids who hack at his neck cause her to tighten her grip on my hand as if she can feel his pain and suffering.

“Zelda,” she whimpers, and we’re back in my office; something tells me we don’t have much time before this tilted reality slams back into place. 

“Mary, I don’t know exactly what has occurred --” The words have barely left my mouth when I find myself pushed against my desk, her mouth on mine. 

Her flavor is different now, expensive and haughty, but still tinged with the sweet honey of Mary, the Mary I remember. Reveling in her essence, I feel the power I had managed to harness within me slip and falter, and her teeth close on my bottom lip, drawing blood, metallic and pungent, drowning out the brief memory of Mary.

I feel her hand sliding up the inside of my thigh, my dress up around my hips suddenly and my eyes open at the invasion. Her eyes peer into mine, as if daring me to stop her as her nails dig into my soft flesh.

“Mary?” I cry, yet I know she’s gone again, lost to the miasma of reality, his reality.

She pushes me away, a snarl across her fine features.

“That’s Minister Wardwell to you,” She rubs the back of her hand across her lips. “And your pitiful attempt at seduction will not save you or your school, Madam Spellman.”

I straighten my clothes, drawing myself up to my full height, thinking perhaps I can call upon that inner power from the moments before yet again, but I cannot recall how or, as the steady pulse of confusion returns, why I would even want to touch this woman before me. She is an instrument of the state, nothing more.

“Should you allow an inspection, however,” her clever voice and smarmy persona back in place. “I may be persuaded to remove the forbidden items, and, of course, arrest you. And I know just the place to imprison you.”

Her eyes return again to the painting, and I’m instantly aware of the softness she exhibits as she peers at it, the softness she harbors towards me as she looks again. And I know I will survive.

**Author's Note:**

> They are my Mary and Zelda from Mary's Prayer. I couldn't resist it. 
> 
> [Judith Beheading Holofernes - The National Gallery, London](https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/exhibitions/artemisia/judith-beheading-holofernes)
> 
> Comments are appreciated and loved. <3


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